


Vendesey

by starsoverhead



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fantasy, Historical, M/M, Magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-28
Updated: 2012-07-28
Packaged: 2017-11-10 22:06:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/471209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsoverhead/pseuds/starsoverhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unable to inherit his father's business, Kithaniel Martinson has reached the point in his life where something must be done, and the choice must be made, he has decided, within the year.  But a year is quite a long time for things to change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Window's Lament

The party belowstairs was audible even where he stood, the small chamber ensemble’s music carrying along with the guests’ voices.  They spoke, laughed, were enjoying themselves, and that was as it should be.  His mother’s parties were invariably successful, all of those attending finding themselves enjoying themselves with good music, good food, and good company.  He resented none of it.  She did have a knack for these celebrations and he was glad she had the opportunity to exercise her abilities, but there were some things he preferred to do alone.  
  
He was thankful that the darkened library offered him solace.  The room smelled like books and leather, its dark wood warm and comfortable.  There was a carafe of brandy on the sideboard and the snifter he’d poured himself weighed comfortably in his hand.  It wasn’t that he wanted to lose his senses to alcohol as much as he wanted the warmth and calm that the liquor could bring.  With footsteps easily masked by the sounds below, he crossed the room, a gloved hand raised to brush the curtain aside, revealing the view he’d come for.  
  
Standing there at the window, he looked over the lawns, seeing them silvered with frost.  The sky above was clear, the moon and stars making the most of their freedom to cast shadows of trees and make the skim of ice sparkle with every faint breeze.  It was a perfectly average Vendesian winter night as he’d seen many times before.  The only difference was that while he’d gazed over the sight moments ago, at forty-two years of age, he was now forty-three.  
  
With a slow sip of brandy, Kithaniel considered congratulating himself for surviving yet another year but he couldn’t.  Each year that passed, he became more and more aware that his father couldn’t live forever.  Unlike his mother, Christharen Martinson was no long-lived, possibly immortal, elf.  He was nearing eighty, and for a human, that was an admirable age.  To hear him talk, though, it was nothing remarkable.  Only the effects of the clear airs of the sea as he had spent so much of his life on his ships.  
  
Though so much of the nobility resented the merchanting class, Christharen had proven the nation’s most profitable importer.  With his shrewd business skills, he procured fine cloth that Vendesey simply couldn’t produce, spices that grew in warmer climes, and even minerals and ore that the archipelago lacked.  
  
Kithaniel had loved sailing and working on his father’s ships, but only when his mother didn’t have something much more important to teach him.  As such, he had learned much of the nobility.  His mother had been born to the nobility, after all, and she had been determined to raise her son as a paragon of class.  Under her, he had learned the management of an estate, the art of conversation, how to dance, how to smile, how to dress, and at her utmost insistance, how to play both piano and harpsichord.  
  
That would be expected of him, he knew, once he returned downstairs.  Marinale was in attendance and her voice had become something of a sensation among the upper crust.  The promise of her singing had drawn a few more visitors than they could’ve counted on otherwise.  And while he would gladly play for the attendees downstairs, for the moment, his solitude felt like a pure necessity.  
  
His father’s import business would soon go into the hands of one of the employees that had been loyal to him for years and, unlike Kithaniel, had a true mind for the business.  And though none could know precisely when, Eir Martinson would eventually expire.  Liaosa, his mother, would return to her father’s home until she decided to remarry - that conclusion was foregone.  But what, Kithaniel couldn’t help but wonder, would become of him.  
  
He knew his mother’s answer, and it was one he didn’t at all want to face.  He would have to choose and marry an heiress.  Then he could manage her inheritance and give her the life she had become accustomed to under her father’s care.  Attend her estates in the country, make certain the workers of the land were contented and well-cared-for, that her houses remained in good condition and were upkept, and that she would ever and always have money for new dresses as the fashions changed.  He would prove quite the exemplary husband.  His mother had made certain of that.  He had no vices.  He cared nothing for smoking, very little for drinking except as the occasional relaxant.  He gambled very little as people so seldom enjoyed gambling with someone who knew where every card lay in the deck.  And he never took more than a moderate portion at the dinner table.  
  
Yet the last thing Kithaniel wanted was marriage.  None knew that, of course.  He would disappoint his mother terribly to tell her that all of her training had resulted in a son who wanted to spend his life alone, minding his own business and letting others tend to themselves.  The times he had loved most were those spent in university, where he could indulge himself in his studies with very little distraction.  Of course, that was a failing that his mother had already sighed over.  While most spent their time in university learning to use their magical ability to the best that they possibly could, every method of testing had proven Kithaniel’s magical talent to be nonexistent.  
  
Between his lack of magic and his lack of aptitude at his father’s business, Kithaniel’s only option was a marriage he didn’t want, unless some venue presented itself from a quarter that none of them had expected.  And despite himself, and despite his forty-three years of experience, he found himself hoping for exactly that.  
  
With a final drink from his snifter, he placed it aside, glanced at the window pane at an angle to check his own reflection before turning to rejoin his own birthday celebration.  His freedom would soon be at an end, and it was time to face that reality.  This upcoming year would be decisive.  He could have it no other way.  His life was waiting for his decision, and he had only twelve months to decide.


	2. One Musical Interlude

“Kithaniel, dearest, there you are.”  
  
“I apologise, Mother,” he greeted as he rejoined the guests.  The party itself was a celebration for the sake of his birthday, yet for the exact moment of its occurrence, he’d needed to be away from all of the commotion.  It was something his mother had never understood, the need for solitude.  She had ever been, and would always be, a socialite.  “I simply needed a moment to myself.”  
  
The momentary disapproval in her eyes skimmed over him as he always let it.  There were some things he simply couldn’t let himself feel bad about and those small constitutionals he took from time to time fell neatly into that particular category.  “Our guests were hoping to hear you play soon - along with our beautiful Marinale’s voice.”  
  
The Lady Marinale Jennisar.  Suddenly reminded, he lifted his gaze to scan the crowd - an easy feat, paired with his height, but Marinale was never difficult to find.  One only had to locate the crowd of young men who gathered around her, hoping to win her hand for a dance or for much more.  
  
And that was where he found her, in the middle of a gathering of the usual peacocks, smiling in her quiet way as they all talked.  Kithaniel had to admit that she was indeed lovely.  Her golden hair was the envy of many women both older and younger than she, shining and arranged into curls that were both natural and artfully placed.  Her eyes were a clear sky blue that no gemstone could be compared to favourably and her complexion like a painted doll, pale peach with the lightest touches of pink at the apples of her cheeks.  
  
There was no wonder at all that she was both so envied and so pursued.  Add to it all that her voice was hailed as angelic and any man would be proud to call her his own.  With his near-constant accompaniment to her singing, everyone expected him to make an offer for her hand before the season was done, but he knew well that they would be sorely disappointed.  He counted her as a friend, but never as anything more.  
  
It was, he thought, perhaps his grandest failing and the largest obstacle to his mother’s wishes for his future.  Perhaps if he’d been betrothed to someone from birth, it would have been better.  As it stood, though, he felt as if he should want the person he married - either to befriend them for the rest of his life, or have the love in his heart that he’d seen between some of the society pairs that had married the season before.  Both of those seemed to require a strength of feeling that he’d held toward no one.  
  
“Of course, Eire.”  Kithaniel bowed politely to his mother.  “I hadn’t forgotten.  I wouldn’t wish to disappoint any of our guests with the deprivation of Marinale’s singing.”  
  
He had made up his mind.  He had one year to decide,  One year including this night, but that didn’t mean a decision would have to be made immediately.  What did have to be done, however, was to go fetch his partner for the evening’s entertainments.  Leaving his smiling mother behind, he crossed the room to Marinale’s audience, all dressed in their magnificent colours.  Shades of blue, violet, green, and red surrounded her, each of them in their decorated, fashionable ensembles with their hair perfectly combed.  Beside them, he was plain and easily missed in his simple black, relieved only with his red neckcloth and the pin of gold, pearl, and diamond that held it in the folds his valet had carefully set in place.  
  
He interrupted with a soft clearing of his throat that somehow carried well enough to quiet the group and part the way before him.  “My Lady,” he said with quiet clarity.  “I believe we are being requested.”  Kithaniel extended his hand, gloved in silk, and received hers - gloved in lace.  
  
She gave him a kind smile in answer.  “Thank you, Eir Martinson.  Might we have five minutes, for the sake of my voice and your hands?”  
  
“As ever, the music room is open to you.”  
  
She stood, her skirts of lavender belling from her hips and hiding her feet from view and Kithaniel tucked her hand at his elbow to guide her to the room that would serve for them to warm up despite the piano having been moved to the ballroom for their performance.  The harpsichord remained, though, and the keyboards were like enough that his fingers would respond how they were needed once the time came.  
  
Once they were out of earshot, Marinale murmured to him, “Thank you.  I know they mean to flatter, but there are times I would prefer to spend without talking to nine at once.  I say nothing of such import that I require so many listeners.”  
  
“You speak, Eire, and that is reason enough for them.  You speak and you smile and they hope that someday, one of your smiles will be just for them.”  
  
After a small smile, she countered, “They’re jealous of you, Kithaniel.”  
  
“Then they are jealous for no reason.”  While it wasn’t a smile it was at least a pleasant expression that he gave her before leaving her at the harpsichord’s side, stepping away to seat himself at the keyboard and slide his gloves from his long-fingered hands.  They were settled across one knee before he began, playing arpeggios climbing up the scale.  After the first, her voice soared alongside the notes.  
  
Her voice was a nearly perfect mezzo soprano that filled the room with little effort.  Kithaniel had no doubts that someday, it would fill the Imperial Ballroom of the Citadel with the Empress sitting in the first row, listening in rapt attention.  The image was simple for him to see, but he wouldn’t speak a word of it.  He knew that while she loved to sing, it wasn’t something she wished to dedicate her life to.  Much as him.  He enjoyed playing piano and harpsichord, but it wasn’t what his life was called toward.  Perhaps both of them, someday, would find their place.  
  
After the simple scales, he began a soft chorale that stretched Marinale’s range to perfection, slow and languid, but full of smooth transitions, long notes, and emotion.  He watched her face as she sang, seeing her eyes close at the swell.  She was putting her heart into her singing, and it was good to hear.  While it was a warmup, it was still a piece more emotionally demanding than the one they would perform in such a short time.  
  
Only once the song was done and Marinale was catching her breath did Kithaniel pull his gloves back on and stand.  “Beautifully done, Eire.”  
  
“And you think so little of your accompaniment?  Kithaniel, you play wonderfully.”  She tucked her hand at his elbow once more as it was offered.  
  
“Thank you - but they come to hear you sing, my friend, not to hear me play.”  
  
“Did you play more often than just accompanying, they would come to hear you play.”  
  
“I’m ill-suited to that attention, Eire.  Come, though.  I have no doubt they grow impatient.”  
  
It wasn’t precisely the truth but as they walked in, all eyes did settle on them.  Or, Kithaniel thought to himself, on her.  She glowed like a candle, moving through the crowd.  He was quite content to be well within her shadow.  
  
Liaosa Martinson, smiling and nodding to her guests, preceded them to the piano, lifting her hands as a polite interruption to all of the conversations that had raised the volume of the room to a low rumble.  The musicians had already stopped playing, their violins and bows held in their laps in the alcove that was purposefully set aside just for them.  As his mother motioned openly to her side, Kithaniel guided Marinale to stand alongside him, there before the crowd.  
  
“My esteemed guests,” she spoke, “thank you for your attendance in honour of my dear son, Kithaniel.  This is the day of his forty-third birthday.”  
  
He bowed to the sound of their polite applause, having to lift a hand to brush a strand of his hair from his face.  
  
“In gratitude, we have planned something more for you than just an evening’s dance.  For your pleasure, Lady Marinale Jennisar has agreed to sing along with Kithaniel’s accompaniment.”  
  
The applause that went through the guests then was more enthusiastic and mostly from the young men.  Kithaniel found himself slightly amused.  With the guest list being what it was, he was forced to wonder who, exactly, his mother was attempting to see married:  himself, or Marinale.  But as their audience applauded, he delivered Marinale to the piano’s side, respectfully kissing her hand before seating himself and once more removing his gloves.  
  
The sound, now, would depend on Kithaniel’s playing.  A harpsichord had only one volume.  The piano, however, would respond to his fingers’ pressure.  His fingers stroked the old ivory keys before he began to play.  
  
His world narrowed to the piano and his performance.  When Marinale began to sing, he knew, then, that they had chosen correctly.  Neither of their parts overpowered the other.  Yet he spent more of his attention on his own melodies and harmonies as she sang, her voice rising into the arched ceiling while his piano supported it, both sounds floating - not ethereal but vibrant, complex and warm.  
  
It seemed like the song lasted forever and for only a moment at once, but the applause afterward was enthusiastic.  Perhaps, he thought, even deserved.  Gloves in hand, he stood, gestured to Marinale, and bowed as she dipped into a curtsey.  It wasn’t, he thought, a bad way to begin the rest of his life.  
  
She was swept away into her bevy of appreciative beaux and Kithaniel was content to let her go.  His own determination had him replacing his gloves.  The rest of the evening, he knew of no real demand upon his time, but he would have to dance with at least a few of the eligible women that had been invited.  His mother would have quite a bit to say if he didn’t, even if his real want was to sit in the library and let the chamber music accompany his reading.  
  
But he would bow to her will, he decided, and offered his hand to the young Lady Treine.  “If you would, Eire, I would enjoy taking this dance with you.”  
  
With a surprised smile, she accepted and stood, becoming his first dance partner of the evening.  There were four more before the guests began to trickle away and he was finally left to his own devices.  The sun would be up before long and he was more than happy to let the servants do the rearranging while he went upstairs to his rooms, his haven, to let the tensions of the evening leave him.  
  
He took a few long breaths once the door was closed behind him and dropped himself into his favourite comfortable armchair, eyes closing.  There was so much to think about, and now that he had the time and the freedom to think, he could.  If only he could decide where to start.


End file.
